Exposed
by elegant.quill1
Summary: An exploration of Molly's thoughts and feelings throughout her time at Bart's, leading up to her final scene with Sherlock in The Reichenbach Fall. "Molly was accustomed to pitiful looks."


_**[.****the connection.]**_

Molly was accustomed to pitiful looks.

After all, the decision to pursue pathology was not exactly a welcomed or glamorous one – certainly not one that warranted parental bragging at Christmas dinners. Doctor, yes – that was impressive. But examining corpses? Was that a "natural" passion, particularly for someone of her _nature_? Surely, the world needed doctors of all sorts, but did they need _her_?

Eventually she'd stopped attending family events altogether.

She'd always been different. Unique. Misunderstood.

So when Sherlock Holmes gracefully stumbled into her laboratory one rainy afternoon, all clinical questions and inspecting eyes, she couldn't help the instant connection she felt. It wasn't love at first sight, no, she wasn't that much of a fool – but it was a connection nonetheless. He deduced her (naturally) to her core – family tension and all – and more than that, he seemed to comprehend. While empathy was another story entirely, Sherlock truly understood. And that was a bold, daring feat as far as any of her other relationships were concerned. Sure, they might say they understand, but there is a difference between understanding and comprehending. Seeing and observing. One cannot be done without the other, yet they are two separate entities. Molly knew this.

And so, despite his cold demeanor, despite his demanding – even morally ambiguous – pursuits with human body parts, she found herself valuing, even respecting the man. "High functioning sociopath" (she doubted it had ever been proven) or not, he let no one define him. When others questioned his life, his occupation, his beliefs, he took it in stride (and usually some honest, if not too honest remarks about their personal lives).

Oh how she would love for him to come to her family Christmas. Just once. That's all it would take.

Essentially, what drew her to him was precisely what had been lacking in all her other connections: Sherlock didn't question her decisions, he encouraged her pursuits. More than once he'd offered a few books he "knew" (she hadn't yet figured out _how_ he had deduced that) she'd enjoy; books, he said, that would improve her craft. She knew the subtext meant she would be more worthwhile to _him_, but she read the books regardless.

He hadn't been wrong.

And so, the next time the clever detective was within close proximity and her words became even _more_ jumbled than usual, she knew what would happen next. And sure enough, as she was munching on her spinach salad she noticed it: the pitiful look from a woman across the cafeteria. Her silent message was plain as day. "Honey, he is never going to see you that way." "You're a pathologist, we understand you're not good with words, let alone flirtation." "Here, maybe I can teach you a few things."

She threw the green produce away and returned to her corpses. There, where it was silent and peaceful. Where others didn't undermine you, where they could keep their compassion, their empathy.

But mostly shy away from pitiful eyes.

Yet another reason why she preferred Sherlock.

While most might see his detachment as a fault, to her it was a welcome relief. Yes, it hurt her. Normally on a daily basis. But at the end of the day, she always forgave him. Because at least he was more understanding, more honest than anyone else could ever hope to be.

* * *

_**[.electricity.]**_

Yes, they were different. In literally (almost) every sense of the word.

He was clinical; she carried emotion on her sleeve.

He was brutally honest; she had difficulty speaking – which usually lead to her beating around the bush.

He was beautiful; she was plain.

The list went on, and she became even more unassuming the further she let it go.

But on her good days, the days when he would trust her with test results, or compliment her appearance to "retrieve" an arm or two, she observed something else.

They were similar.

Not necessarily in the ordinary sense of the word (when had they ever been anything remotely close to ordinary?), but beneath the surface, she sensed it. After all, electricity needs a connection to cause a spark.

They were both misunderstood. Yes, Sherlock brushed people off, devalued human connection to a fault, but she doubted that many truly saw _him_. The Detective Inspector, even John, only saw one side: the ever-so-clever, consulting detective who was never wrong. She doubted anyone truly understood the thrill of his "occupation" (unpaid) which was why his obsessive pursuit of truth was so defining, so utterly _him_, and that was something she understood completely – just as he understood hers.

They were both terrible with words. In different ways, yes. But it was true: they were no doubt the two most unsocial beings on the planet; she preferring her corpses to human interaction (save to starve off loneliness), and he with his boredom (or emotions, she guessed). She stumbled terribly over hers; he was ruthless, even downright mean at times with his, voicing his deductions like he would in any other circumstance. And while he did hurt her occasionally, she understood. Because her words never came out right either.

So naturally, her feelings progressed. What began as a connection, a spark, respect, turned into something much deeper, much more terrifying.

And as her feelings progressed, so did the pitiful looks: first her colleagues, then John, then her family.

It was sad, really, her own parents could deduce her unrequited love better than the man-genius himself. So intelligent, so knowledgable, except when it came to matters of the heart.

Not that she was an expert herself.

But there was one thing she did know beyond a shadow of a doubt, and that was the truth: her feelings would never be returned. Cafeteria lady #1 was right: he would never see her that way.

She started eating lunch with her corpses after that (the less human interaction the better). Because, for once, the pitiful faces were right: it was sad. It was pathetic. She (probably) did not deserve it.

But then the thought occurred to her: that wasn't it either. The pitiful faces misunderstood. Just like they always did. It didn't matter what Molly deserved. It mattered what _he_ deserved. All this time, the way she felt, it was never about _her_. Nothing was ever about her. It was always him. After all, isn't that what love is? Putting others ahead of yourself? No matter if her feelings were reciprocated, no matter how many pitiful looks she received, no matter how many spinach salads she ate alone, only one thing mattered: Sherlock Holmes. Because they understood each other, albeit in an abnormal, obscure way. Because they were similar, in a backwards, opposite way. And really, when you got down to it, because she _believed_ in him. And no one – not her colleagues, not John, not even her family – could convince her differently.

* * *

_**[.trusted.]**_

She knows him.

More than that, she knows the look of pain etched oh-so-carefully upon his handsome, porcelain face. The thinly veiled sadness in his eyes is all too familiar. It's the look she wears nearly everyday now, just as it's the reason for most of the decisions that led her to this state: loneliness, despair, vulnerability.

It is the reason she has nothing left to lose.

So she talks to him, tells him about her dad. The words are convoluted and difficult (as usual), but she persists, even when the man himself attempts to shut her out ("Molly..."). And for the first time, she befuddles the clever detective with the funny hat. She leaves him speechless. Were it not for the seriousness of the moment, it might warrant a chuckle.

But it isn't funny. None of it is.

Because Sherlock is never terrified. He never hides emotion behind his eyes.

He never runs away, like she always does.

She is well aware he will turn her down, that there is no way in the world she can help him. He is the one with the answers, after all. She knows her place: alone, in the morgue, with her salads and her bodies. Routine is her daily comfort now, routine and _him_. No matter how awful he is, no matter how little she matters to him, she knows now that her caring for him is not something that will fade away. And oddly enough, she accepts this fact. Has come to terms with it. So when she confronts him, tells him about pained look in his eyes, it isn't because she expects to help him. She doesn't have answers, or even comfort. She only has the truth.

She speaks because she _cares_, plain and simple, and that is something that the pitiful faces – even Sherlock – will never understand.

Perhaps in some strange way she is brave after all. Because there come moments in life when speaking without any expectations is the most brave action of all. It's selfless, it's terrifying, and it's hoping when there's no hope left to give.

So when she leaves that night, at peace with herself and her small accomplishment (it's also bittersweet, but then, her entire relationship with him is), she nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice, low and raspy.

"You were wrong you know."

She makes a small squeal of surprise before she can help herself, and suddenly she's not at peace anymore. And it's not because Sherlock makes her legs weak, or because he's here late after hours. It's because of the raw emotion in his voice. He still hasn't looked her direction, and oddly enough, the small lack of movement only increases her wariness.

He's scared.

It's coming off him in waves, and she's not precisely sure how she's picked up on it, but it's there. Plain as day. Call it a gut instinct.

And somehow, that knowledge puts her even more on edge. She wasn't expecting him, certainly wasn't expecting a confession, and now that he's here, she's found she has no idea what's going to happen next, what she needs to do.

The thoughts rush through her in a sort of haze, and she barely has time to register _what_ on earth he was originally saying before he speaks again.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

Well, bollocks. Now she _definitely_ doesn't know what to do. Her fingers begin playing with her jacket ever so slightly of their own volition, the weight of his words hanging in the air. She's afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, for fear of ruining this precious moment. This moment, she has no doubt, that will _never_ occur again. This moment, which she is both immensely grateful for and dearly hoping will never occur again, as it's left him so vulnerable, so empty, so lost.

It's both heartbreakingly sad and unbelievably fulfilling simultaneously.

He finally looks at her – really looks – and she can read every, miniscule emotion in his crystal blue eyes: fear, uncertainty, doubt, and maybe even longing. She knows it's rude to stare, but she does it anyway, ingraining this moment forever in her memory.

"But you were right. I'm not okay."

Her response to his admission comes immediately, without any thought whatsoever. Yet another sign of her undying devotion to this unique man; she will always trust him, always forgive him, always help him.

"Tell me what's wrong."

Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins walking toward her, still speaking in that wary, sad tone that makes her heart break in two: "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

She doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't even gasp. Even as a million thoughts race through her head, only one encompasses them all: "What do you need?"

The subtext: I will do anything for you.

He begins speaking directly over her the moment she finishes, as if carrying on the second half of his original thought: "If I wasn't everything you think I am – everything I think I am – would you still want to help me?"

He's standing directly in front of her now, gaze never wavering. It's the most intense, most important moment of her life, and she won't back down now. He _needs_ her. Words she never thought she'd ever hear, but she'll be damned if she lets him down now.

There's no other words that need to be said, so she let's the subtext speak for her, repeating "What do you need?" as her eyes scarcely brim with unshed tears. The words come out quieter than before, but the unsaid promise is evident in her voice. And as her eyes continue to search his, pouring everything she has into the stare – comfort, healing, affection – she knows he understands. For the first time, Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes truly _understand_ each other. For the first time (she suspects ever), the detective doesn't have the answers. For the first time, he's been beaten. And he's come to her for help.

It's the most real, genuine emotion she's ever seen out of the man, and she can't even dwell on the fact that it's directed toward _her_. Because if she does, she just might break herself, out of joy and sadness both. So she reigns in it, at least for the moment, and focuses on him. On his eyes. On his hurt. On his sadness.

It's all she's ever done, focus on him.

He takes one last step closer, his proximity overwhelming her senses. The intensity between them increases tenfold, and she doesn't know what to make of it. Outwardly she remains utterly calm, eyes never leaving his, even as his bore into her soul with a ferocious intensity.

And just when she thinks it can't get any more surreal, just when she thinks she's been a pitiful fool all this time for her undying devotion, her never-ending affection, he says the single, most perfect word that makes all the Christmas dinners, all the forlorn lunches, and all the pitiful glances in the world bearable again. It's the most beautiful word she's ever heard, made complete by the fact that it's coming from _him. _This beautiful, broken man. Every lab test, every cafeteria conversation, every harsh word has lead to this moment of broken forgiveness, and it couldn't be more _right. _All her loneliness, all her grief, all her despair dissipates in one, lone tear that escapes her as he says:

"You."

It's all the encouragement she ever needed.

* * *

Thanks for reading, chaps. xoxo.


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